


what the bluebirds sing at you

by wingtae (dazaicat)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, M/M, also mentions of violence and death so there's that, mentions of cat cups and earl grey, no volleyball; also no happiness, reaper au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-22 01:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11369709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazaicat/pseuds/wingtae
Summary: all iwaizumi ever wanted was a cup of earl grey in the evening.instead, he got, not necessarily in that order: a stranger (oikawa tooru), his death, and a new job.





	1. don't mind me

**Author's Note:**

> hi yes. this is probably ooc, definitely pointless, and may or may not make u sad. unbetaed, but i Try ;-;

Iwaizumi’s in the bathroom when it happens.

He’s scrubbing at his hands with a towel, rubbing his fingertips pink, when he happens to glance over at the clock. It’s an old clock; he bought it over a year ago on a poorly-planned trip to Ikea and never really bothered wih it after he stuck it on the wall above the mirror. It’s an old and shitty clock, actually, and all of these things probably explain why it’s currently broken.

It reads 8:19pm, even though 9pm came and went a few hours ago. Iwaizumi scoffs at the incompetence, makes a vague note to self to get some new batteries, a 4-pack of those AA ones from the store would do, maybe some milk too while he’s at it? and drops the towel into the basket by the door on his way out.

The laptop screen is powered off where he left it on his desk. Must have happened while he was in the shower, he thinks, as he grabs a random mug from the assortment crowding his overflowing table.

It’s a cat mug. Cute, he idly considers as he tips it forward to see if anything has grown in it yet. No suspicious colonies reveal themselves, so he takes the cup and scratches at his stomach as he worms his way between the king-sized bed and the closet right opposite it.

Kind of a tight fit, but then again, Iwaizumi never really needed much space - never really needed AA batteries, either, what with the clock on his laptop.

When he steps out into the living room in loose grey sweatpants, taking his uncolonized cat mug into the kitchen with vague ideas of a strong cup of earl grey, all of his senses snap to high alert.

 

On his couch is a stranger.

 

Iwaizumi almost drops his cup right there and then, or almost flings it into the shape on the couch on reflex. He doesn’t. Instead, he settles for the third best of gaping at the intrusion like a fish and hoping the intrusion takes some kind of initiative.

It does.

The stranger sits on Iwaizumi’s year-old Ikea couch with his his legs crossed one over in possibly the most refined position anyone has ever sat on Iwaizumi’s couch, said legs clad in a suit possibly the most refined anyone has ever worn on Iwazumi’s couch. In front of him, on the similarly year-old Ikea coffee table, sit two steaming cups, perfectly untouched. The stranger smiles.

Faced with such a smile, Iwaizumi is hit with a sudden and ridiculous feeling that _he_ is somehow being impolite, which shouldn’t make sense given how it’s his house and his couch and his coffee table and wow, is that _his favourite scrabble mug? -_ but the feeling draws him closer, hooks into his intestines gently like a fishing line and reels him right into the waiting hands of -

Well, not literally. The stranger’s hands are nowhere near him, unlike Iwaizumi’s knees, which are in dangerous proximity of the coffee table. Also like Iwaizumi’s apparent sanity, in dangerous proximity of places too far removed for his own good, but then the stranger lifts one of those (long fingered. Slender. _Elegant,_ even _,_ his mind supplies very helpfully in a steady stream of Captain Obvious) hands and makes a gesture at him.

Iwaizumi blinks twice before he registers it as a wave. The stranger is waving at him, like they’re old friends, and then he’s _grinning_ at him, and speaking, and Iwaizumi wonders if the world always sounded like the inside of a fishbowl, rushing and curved and confined but then the stranger cuts in with a sigh.

“ _Iwa-chan!”_ the stranger sounds petulant, even a tad frustrated, coated with a helping of fondness thick enough to smooth over any annoyance.

Iwaizumi, on his part, wonders where the stranger got his name from, along with the sheer lack of care to mutilate it like that.

“Oikawa,” says Iwaizumi instead, wondering even harder where _that_ name came from. _Oikawa_?

Nothing is making sense, but this _Oikawa_ is smiling at him in the way one would smile at a friend they’ve been reunited with after years of separation. It tugs at the fishing line in Iwaizumi’s stomach a little. He’s never had friends like that, he’d _notice_ or something, so he shouldn’t be able to relate -

“Sit down,” Oikawa suggests with a fond almost-eyeroll (like Iwaizumi is being particularly obtuse), and gestures to the armchair opposite him with a flick of those fingers.

Iwaizumi does as told, digging his fingertips into his knees over the worn grey cotton.

Nothing makes sense, and the stranger’s next words make even less. He wraps his long fingers around the cup, even though the steam rising from it must make the ceramic unbearable to the touch, and blows on it. Purses his lips, eyes firmly on the cup, then sets it down without taking a single sip. Brings his eyes back up to Iwaizumi. Positively _beams,_ there’s little other way to describe his expression when he crinkles his eyes and flashes his teeth like some kind of long-fingered toothpaste commercial.

“Now then, Iwa-chan. Let’s discuss your death.”

 

Iwaizumi wonders what the fuck that means, and also why his hands are suddenly empty when a minute ago he was definitely holding a cup.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kasdjfsadkjfsd i think this will take more chapters than originally planned?? wow im bad at planning!! thank u for reading i love u ♡

He was _definitely_ holding the cat cup, but now it’s between Oikawa’s slender fingers and Oikawa is gazing into it like he expects it to be discussing Iwaizumi’s apparent death on his behalf. Then he’s looking up again, lips folded into a smirk.

“Cute,” Oikawa remarks.

“My death?” Iwaizumi replies, all relevance.

“Ah, yes. Your death, Iwa-chan, is the reason you get to enjoy my company this fine night.” The stranger grins to himself at that, lips pressed into the rim of the cat cup, before he sets it down again. His lips are dry. So are Iwaizumi’s.

He licks at them to try and get the uncomfortable feeling off. The stranger watches.

Iwaizumi coughs.

“You some kind of serial killer?”

The stranger blinks at him for a few beats, and then proceeds to lose his shit. He _giggles,_ long fingers pressed to his mouth as his shoulders shake and Iwaizumi’s gaze is on the bob of his throat - _like one of those little buoys every cartoon fishing rod comes with_ -

“Actually, something like that,” he purrs once his laughter has simmered down into thick amusement. He’s tipped forward, watching Iwaizumi intently. “Not in the sense you think, Iwa-chan, stop fussing.” He tilts his head at Iwaizumi, as if to say _you’re being ridiculous,_ which makes the situation funny, and it would be such a great joke - if only it made _sense,_ but it doesn’t, and Iwaizumi should probably be more worried about a self-proclaimed serial killer on his couch, but instead he asks a far more pressing question.

“Am I alive?”

It comes out of his mouth in the exact same tone Oikawa’s name did.

Oikawa smiles at him again in the exact same way, warm gentle sunshine, and nods. “Nope.”

“I feel pretty alive,” Iwaizumi argues, feeling incredibly stupid to be even indulging such a a ridiculous conversation, but his tongue seems to be following a script he never got to vet.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. It’s serious this time. He’s got his chin in the palm of a hand he’s resting on his crossed knee, gazing at Iwaizumi with impossible pity.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi repeats. It tastes hollow, but Oikawa takes it as a valid answer to his non-question. A valid, but apparently very disappointing answer.

“Drink your tea, Iwa-chan,” he says quietly and looks away.

 

* * *

Iwaizumi glances down at the table.

 

There is only one cup now, it’s his, the cat cup, and it’s half-filled. The side is cold to the touch.

He picks it up and brushes his lips across the rim. Pauses.

When his eyes meet Oikawa’s across the coffee table, cup hovering in his grip, Oikawa scowls.

The cup is empty in the next instant, and when he tips it nothing comes. His lips are impossibly more dry and Oikawa looks suddenly unsettled, like Iwaizumi just foiled a grand master plan, annoyance settling like a razor blade in the line of his bared teeth. It is, for a second, terrifying.

Then Oikawa closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives Iwaizumi a pained smile.

“Dreadfully sorry, Iwa-chan, it must be so rude of me not to introduce myself. You can call me -”

“I know, Oikawa To- ” Iwaizumi is about to say, not sure where the words are coming from, but in the next second he’s blinking up at the stranger suddenly in his lap. His fingers are digging into Iwaizumi’s jaw where he has a palm sealed firmly over his mouth.

“No first names.” His eyes glint. His mouth is set into an unsmiling line, an inch above Iwaizumi’s under his palm.

Iwaizumi nods, and Oikawa is sitting across the table from him again. He blinks, and Oikawa’s face is a few centimeters above his own. It’s a strange, head-hurting dissonance. He opens his mouth to dispel it.

What comes out surprises him yet again.

“Your fingers. They were in my hair. Before.” He’s not sure what he means, either, but it tastes like truth.

Oikawa sighs and taps his nose, eyes closed. “Stop.”

“You’ve made tea for me before.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes. Iwa-chan. Stop.” Oikawa’s voice is tired all of a sudden, but on Iwaizumi’s tongue it tastes like earl-grey-flavored _loneliness,_ and he’s on the brink of finally knowing why and where and how he _**knows**_ the person sitting opposite him right now - but then the metaphorical cup is empty again, and his lips are still dry.

Iwaizumi isn’t saying anything, but Oikawa makes a sound like he’s being hurt, anyway, and looks up at him with tired eyes. “Please.”

Then there’s a hand brushing against Iwaizumi’s shoulder, “Sleep, Iwa-chan,” breathed against his ear, and darkness spills into his fishbowl world like an inkwell tipped over.

He dreams, very vaguely and strangely familiarly, of the concept of a hand in his hair cat-scratching against his scalp.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: space. out. ur. chapters.  
> also me: haveeverythingatoncethanku

When he wakes, now in his bed, it’s still dark outside. Or he thinks it is; he can’t really see out any of the windows. Oikawa is at his desk when he blinks up groggily and rubs sleep out of his eyes. He looks unruffled, suit without a single wrinkle as far as Iwaizumi can see in the dim light.

 

“Wha’s th time?” He mumbles, sleepily, in Oikawa’s general direction.

“Are you hungry, Iwa-chan?” is his reply. “I can cook something for you, if you want.”

Iwaizumi groans at that and rolls out of bed. He lands in an undignified, blanket-covered roll and Oikawa pokes at his side through the blanket with his toes.

At the sensation, Iwaizumi peeks an eye open again in curiosity at Oikawa’s suggested barefootedness in that suit, but before he can untangle himself to get a proper look, Oikawa is already out the door and on his way to the kitchen, feet pitter-pattering across the tiled floor.

 

* * *

When Iwaizumi finally makes his way to the kitchen, teeth tasting of peppermint and tongue tasting of ‘food right now before i die’, Oikawa is staring at his toaster pensively.

 

Two slices are already loaded in. Oikawa steps aside, and Iwaizumi presses down the lever and flicks the switch on the coffee machine.

Oikawa watches him silently as he digs in his fridge for cheese. It feels like an uncharacteristic silence, but the feeling of not knowing Oikawa tastes like the feeling of coffee not yet being on his tongue, so he’s not sure he can make that judgement.

After all, he was supposedly dead himself.

He butters the toast and cuts neat little rectangles of cheese to line the butter with. When he looks back at Oikawa, knife between his teeth, Oikawa is perusing his wire cup rack.

“Pick one,” says Iwaizumi, teeth now knife-free, and picks up the sponge to rinse the knife and a blue ‘Cool Spiker’ cup.

“Mm,” responds Oikawa noncommitally, cat cup cradled between his palms. Then Oikawa is right behind him, lips almost against his ear and sending shivers down his back. “Morning, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says with lazy sleepy warmth that his appearance does not betray at all, and then he’s across the kitchen again staring at the lights on Iwazumi’s coffee machine as it pings.

Iwaizumi shakes off the uncomfortable feeling of deja vu as he sets the toast on two plates. Oikawa takes one without complaint, eyeing it consideringly like it’s some kind of cryptic message Iwaizumi can’t communicate in words. Iwaizumi brushes past him, and makes his way towards the coffee table again.

A few beats later, Oikawa follows. He settles in on the couch next to Iwaizumi, toes (that Iwaizumi still can’t see but can feel against his thigh) tucked under Iwaizumi’s legs like he’s been doing it a thousand times in every possible configuration.

At this point, Iwaizumi prioritizes his sandwich over wondering what the fuck is going on.

 

* * *

When he’s done, Oikawa’s plate is gone. So is the cat cup, actually, and now that Iwaizumi thinks about it, he’s never actually _seen_ him consume any of the sandwich or coffee. Oikawa himself is silent, demeanour a complete 180 degrees from his blinding self at first meeting.

 

Though, perhaps, that wasn’t their first meeting at all.

Iwaizumi feels that fact like a nagging stare on his back, and it makes him turn rapidly - interestingly, Oikawa’s eyes are indeed fixed on him, but it does little to alleviate the pressure.

Speaking would be a good idea, but he has no idea of what to say or how to approach the topic of this person he kind-of-knows-intimately, kind-of-is-seeing-for-the-first-time, or especially his apparent “death”.

He doesn’t know why he is so calm.

The clock in the toilet has not moved. His laptop lies powered off. His wrists are bare, he has no idea what time or day it is or even was before this all began, but this fact only touches him in the way the sea licks the shore.

He’s calm, so very calm, so void of anticipation that it honestly makes him wonder who he even is anymore.

 

* * *

Oikawa follows him around like an overstyled, overdressed shadow. Iwaizumi only hears the pat-pat of his feet on tile, sometimes, but he barely says a word besides murmured monosyllabic remarks he makes when he wants Iwaizumi to stop hogging the sink.

 

(Iwaizumi has no idea why Oikawa even needs the sink so often, given how he never sees Oikawa’s hands wet, but he doesn’t know how to ask.)

He looks so, so hollow, and Iwaizumi wonders if he must do something about that - maybe it’s some kind of requirement for moving forward - but then he catches the sad way Oikawa looks at his DVD collection, thumbing through the titles like they’re funeral pictures, the way even Oikawa’s chocolate perfectly styled locks seem to wilt under the power of his misery, and thinks _not now._

 

* * *

Slowly, his fridge empties.

 

He never sees Oikawa sleep.

 

* * *

He has no idea how much time passes, but eventually, Iwaizumi’s fridge and pantry no longer contain anything edible.

 

He’s chewing on the last of the crackers, licking the salt off his lips, and trying to find his keys when Oikawa surfaces out of seemingly nowhere to hover over his shoulder.

“What are you doing, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa squints at him accusingly like an angry cat.

Iwaizumi doesn’t reply.

Oikawa repeats his question, in a flatter and bitchier tone, and Iwaizumi pauses with his hand on the doorframe and raises his eyebrows.

“I need to eat, you know. There is a market downstairs, I could pick some batteries up - ”

“No.”

Oikawa’s tone is as flat as the last coke in the kitchen and brooks no argument.

Iwaizumi’s eyebrows level up to higher altitudes.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. You’re not going out, Iwa-chan.”

Oikawa’s self-assured, almost bored statement is what flips the switch from placent to irritated for Iwaizumi.

“You’re not the fucking boss of me, give me _one good fucking reason -_ ”

If Iwaizumi meant a reason to deck him in the face, Oikawa gives him two.

First, he gives his most obnoxious smirk yet.

Second, he flips something into the air, catches it, and dangles Iwaizumi’s keys right under his nose before flicking his wrist (and the keys with it) somewhere Iwaizumi can’t process.

He’s so very done with Oikawa’s bullshit.

That thought fills him with sudden desperation, and he lunges for the main door, filled with the overpowering desire to get out _out **out -**_

The door handle opens, and then doesn’t open at once, onto earl-grey-nothingness, and Oikawa tackles him from behind.

Iwaizumi’s breath leaves his lungs in a painful hiss as his back hits the sharp corner of the corridor. For a moment, he sees red, snarling and digging his too-long-nails into whatever he can reach, baring his teeth at an adrenaline-blurred shape that is Oikawa above him, but then his hands find themselves on Oikawa’s neck.

He uses that convenient grip to whirl them around and slam Oikawa into the wall.

Oikawa goes surprisingly easily, and in Iwaizumi’s sudden rage, he doesnt at first notice that Oikawa’s shaking.

When he does, though, he stills.

In however many days have passed since Oikawa’s sudden unexplained appearance in his life, he’s never seen him do certain things:

He’s never seen him eat.

He’s never seen him asleep.

He’s never seen a single thing about his appearance being anything less than perfect.

And now, for the first time, he’s seeing Oikawa _cry_.

It’s not a pretty sight; Oikawa is sobbing hard, hands clenched in Iwaizumi’s shirt, drenching the floor and the both of them in salty misery. His shoulders are shaking with each sob so violently that he’s practically vibrating in Iwaizumi’s grip.

His hands grapple at Iwaizumi with a desperation that echoes deep in his lungs with every exhale. Oikawa’s hand twists in Iwaizumi’s shirt, slides up to the back of Iwaizumi’s neck, grips hard at the base of his jaw. Oikawa pulls Iwaizumi closer and buries his face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Oikawa’s wet eyelashes are tickling the skin above the collar of Iwaizumi’s t-shirt.

“ _Hajime,”_ Oikawa sighs into his chest, and suddenly, Iwaizumi _remembers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iwaoi is the cliff im hanging off much like iwaizumis memories are the cliff this entire shitty plot is hanging off


	4. Chapter 4

When Iwaizumi wakes up, he rolls over on instinct and tucks his hand out from under his body to paw at the space beside him.

The ground beneath him is very hard and very cold.

The silence in the air is equally hard and cold, void of any crying or sad sighing but also void of answers as to where he is.

It definitely doesn’t feel like he’s still in his apartment.

Within a few moments, though, the air seems to change slightly in terms of hardness and coldness, and then there is a lot of noise all at once.

A face swings into his line of sight, lots of messy raven black hair styled into sharp spikes, and lots of bright white teeth pulled into a sharp smirk. The eyes, however, lack any mirth, and Iwaizumi almost shudders at how flat and emotionless the gaze is. He blinks a few times to communicate that idea to the face, which, as he discovers, is connected to a set of shoulders clad in yet _another_ black suit.

The face swings back out of sight and presumably calls out to someone else. “He’s awake.”

Iwaizumi tries to roll on his side to see who precisely needed to know that, but then the face is in his line of vision and also about a foot from his and the spiky-haired stranger is crouching by his side, splaying his hands out in a cautionary gesture.

“Hey, hey, don’t move too much,” he says, and Iwaizumi is somewhat sick of people telling him what to do in that assured serious tone, so he redoubles his rolling-over efforts in retaliation.

When all of his bones summarily cry out for help and the stabbing pain freezes the next breath in his lungs, however, he realizes he is but a mere fool.

The stranger seems to not be amused, judging by the way he clucks his tongue. “What did I just tell you,” he says, half-entertained and half-bored, and Iwaizumi is immediately half-indignant and half-pissed-off. Also, full in pain, which seems to register on his face, because in the next moment there is a gloved hand hovering above his forehead and the pain is trickling out of his bones and out of his skin onto the unusually hard floor.

The net effect is Iwaizumi not being in pain anymore, which he takes as a blessing, and also not in anything much anymore, which is somewhat disturbing. If he’s not mistaken, the pain is colored earl grey too, which only adds to the feeling.

He plants a wrist into the ground, and uses that to leverage himself upwards into a semi-seated position. The stranger springs back immediately at that.

“Whoa whoa _whoa,”_ he says, hands held up in front of him, and Iwaizumi thinks, _okay, do that. Instead of helping me up. Asshole._

The stranger’s nose wrinkles the moment he thinks the insult, and when he speaks up again, he sounds defensive. “I can’t just touch you, you know. There are rules around here.”

_Okay, do that. Read my mind, asshole,_ Iwaizumi thinks in response, and plants a second wrist on the ground to finally make his way up to a squat, and then a somewhat-shaky standing position.

The spiky-haired asshole is full-on frowning at him.

“You’re very grumpy for someone who just died, you know,” he observes, “but I guess that’s common around here. Follow me.”

He turns on his heel (though Iwaizumi can’t really see if he’s wearing shoes) and Iwaizumi stumbles in the general direction of his retreating back, cursing the weakness in his legs and their imitation of cooked noodles.

 

* * *

The spike-haired wonder takes him into a large hall, where a number of people seems to already be gathered. It looks like a glorified, emo version of a courtroom, and a sinking feeling immediately fills Iwaizumi’s lungs when he realizes he’s probably the starring role in this production.

 

The sinking feeling spreads far beyond his lungs and filters into the bloodstream when he sees Oikawa, face obscured but coiffed locks unmistakeable, behind one of the polished wooden stands.

Oikawa _Tooru. His_ Oikawa Tooru.

He tilts his head up, towards the huge stand right in front of him, and makes eye contact with the humanoid equivalent of a giant horned owl.

“Oho,” the humanoid equivalent of a giant horned owl says, and Iwaizumi knows he’s fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok 1 more chapter n then i can sleep forever,,  
> thank u for reading this nonsense !! i appreciate it ♡


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary: death death death angst like 3 paragraphs of fluff death angst  
> (skip the first part w the shitton of italics if blood/violence/murder isnt what u want to read about. the Second part w the shitton of italics is pure fluff)

From the stands, a blond steps forward and slips his glasses up his nose with a freakishly long and freakishly elegant finger. Seriously, is  _everyone_ ridiculously elegant around here?

The blond probably appreciates the compliment, but if he does, it doesn’t show in his dry tone. It carries in the large hall and winds itself around Iwaizumi’s throat.

“Presenting Hajime, Iwaizumi. On trial for murder, evading reaping and…” the blond trails off to inspect his fingernails casually, “overall a shitty disposition. How do you plead?”

“It was  _self-defense,”_ Oikawa grinds out from the stands, and for the millionth time Iwaizumi wonders what the  _fuck_ any of this means.

“I would be quiet if I were you, Oikawa. As I recall,  _you_ were the one sent to reap him in the first place.”

“ _So blame me for it,”_ Oikawa snarls, honest-to-god snarls, and Iwaizumi’s heart aches and aches for him. When it hits that Oikawa is trying to take the blame for something on Iwaizumi’s behalf, he  _wrongness_ of it ignites the lump in his throat.

“What the fuck,” he says, an apt summary of his feelings on the matter, and the spiky-haired stranger speaks up from behind him.

“You killed a man, Iwaizumi Hajime,” he says, in a low and serious tone.

“Let’s review the evidence,” says the blond, and the room goes dark.

 

* * *

 

_Iwaizumi is in his toilet, scrubbing at his fingers with a towel. His fingertips are pink. He keeps rubbing, as if it’ll make them somehow cleaner._

_The sink is spattered with blood._

_The clock shows 8:19pm. It’s an old, shitty, broken clock. The water is running, rivulets of pink on the sides of the sink, pink like Iwaizumi’s fingertips._

_He rubs harder._

_The blood has soaked through his shirt, and is currently wetly seeping out of it onto his shower mat. Iwazumi’s chest is wet, blood-free but barely._

_When the broken bottle connected with the attacker’s neck, the resulting spray has soaked Iwaizumi completely._

_He recalls holding his hands to the gash in his neck, recalls dropping his wallet into the pool of blood collecting around their feet, recalls dropping to his knees and staring in horror at the no-longer-aggressive body in front of him._

_He also recalls running from the scene like the water running in his sink right now, picking glass out of his hand and kicking his blood-filled shoes off and pulling the shirt off his body the moment he stumbles into the shower._

_He recalls putting on his grey sweatpants._

_He recalls not recalling anything._

 

* * *

 

When the scene fades, Iwaizumi comes to a realization he’s on his knees, shaking violently. Far away, he can hear Oikawa shouting.

“ _Fuck you_ , Tsukishima, you  _know_ he was protecting his own life -” “It’s still murder, we’ve  _reaped_ the person he killed -” “SHUT UP, all of you!”

Then the courtroom goes silent.

“Thank you, Kuroo,” the owl-man says mildly into the silence, and turns his amber eyes on Iwaizumi.

His gaze is piercing, and Iwaizumi feels like the unfortunate insect trapped within.

“Is this true?” Owl-man says, his entire presence so  _loud_ even though he’s barely said a word.

Iwaizumi coughs wetly. He didn’t realize he was crying. He realizes it when it colors his voice.

“I…don’t know.” Is all that comes out. He repeats it, quieter. “I don’t know.”

Owl-man just nods, like Iwaizumi’s answer made complete sense in context and satisfied his query. Then, he twists his head almost a full 90 degrees to the side, appropriately owl-like, to stare piercingly at Oikawa.

“I couldn’t bring him back,” Oikawa says, entirely defeated.

“Why is that?” Kuroo’s voice comes from behind Iwaizumi, accusatory and unforgiving, and Oikawa’s temper ignites.

“Because he’d be facing an unfair shit trial over something he had to do to  _live,_ except now he’s  _dead,_ and there’s nothing I can do to change that and you  _know_ it, so get to the fucking point, you  _know who he is.”_

The last few words are soaked through with venom and desperation, Oikawa’s voice cutting off ragged and raw like a freshly severed limb. He’s panting.

Owl-man’s voice, when it comes, is impossibly kind. “You know the rules, Oikawa.”

“ _Fuck_ the rules,” Oikawa snarls.

“Let’s review more evidence,” the blond cuts in again, deadpan, and Oikawa’s face melts once again into darkness.

 

* * *

 

_He’s sitting on his couch, toes curled against the cold and a warm heavy shape tucked into his side. The TV flickers quietly in front of them, some kind of alien movie of the many DVDs on their shelf. Soft hair the color of warm chocolate tickles his nose, and the shape against him snuffles and burrows itself closer. “Move, I can’t see the screen, idiot,” he says fondly, and the figure makes a protesting noise. “So mean, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines, and Iwaizumi ruffles his hair in reply and shifts him closer to tuck against his chest more firmly._

_Then he’s in his kitchen, shirtless, while Oikawa makes breakfast. The toaster pings, and Oikawa jerks like a startled cat. He squawks indignantly when Iwaizumi buries a fond smile in his (already clothed for work) shoulder, and swats at Iwaizumi’s hand when he swipes a finger through the jam on the toast. He dances out of reach, grinning as Oikawa whines about “_ gross, Iwa-chan _,” and silences the protests when he swoops in to plant a kiss on Oikawa’s still-open mouth. Oikawa huffs, but his cheeks are dusted pink, and Iwaizumi kisses them too, again and again until Oikawa is a giggling, half-indignant and half-pleased mess in his arms._

_Then he’s on his bed, Oikawa balanced on his lap and laptop balanced on a pillow beside him. Oikawa is a heavy weight against his chest, and he’s browsing something on his phone while Iwaizumi types up the remainder of his proposal. Every once in a while, he mutters some tidbit of knowledge regarding their old friends, “s_ eems like Mattsun and Makki finally made it official, finally, who’d have expected"  _with a gentle snort against Iwaizumi’s t-shirt. He hums in reply. Oikawa tilts his nose up into Iwaizumi’s jaw, and brushes a sleepy kiss against his neck. “_ I’m sleepy, Iwa-chan, are you done yet,”  _he says, and Iwaizumi sighs and closes the tab he was working on._

 

* * *

 

The courtroom is dead silent when he comes to again.

No one speaks. Iwaizumi doesn’t think he’ll be speaking for the next ten years at least, so there’s little he can do about that.

Owl-man is wearing no expression at all. Kuroo is behind him, out of sight. The blond looks like he just mainlined pure salt and chased that down with lemon juice. And Oikawa…

He can’t stand to look at Oikawa, so he doesn’t know.

 

* * *

 

Kuroo steps forward from behind him, finally coming into view, and suddenly he’s on Owl-man’s right. One of his eyes is obscured by the spiked ink mess that is his hair. The other is piercing and cat-like in its gaze.

He narrows it, consideringly, at Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi’s windpipe considerately narrows and sends him into a coughing fit.

Oikawa makes a motion as if to leap across the stand and join him, but he’s held back by something invisible, possibly the power of Tsukishima’s scowl.

Then Iwaizumi stumbles onto his hands on the floor, coughing too hard to breathe, and the power of Tsukishima’s scowl no longer prevents Oikawa from engaging in parkour to get to his side, despite alarmed yells from the audience.

Oikawa is kneeling beside him, warm hands hovering  _so close_ to his face, his own sobs repressed in favour of breathing Iwaizumi’s name over and over, in a constant stream of  _Iwa-chan Iwa-chan Iwa-chan._ Kuroo stands over them, ridiculously tall and imposing all of a sudden, and Iwaizumi is choking.

Owl-man speaks. He sounds ridiculously happy and childlike all of a sudden, and it’s so incongruent with literally  _everything_ going on that Iwaizumi wants to scream.

“Well, well, well! Looks like we have finally solved our case!” He beams at the courtroom, amber eyes folded into crinkly crescents.

The blond,  _Tsukishima,_ looks like he just chewed an entire lemon raw, peel inclusive. “Indeed.”

He shifts the glasses even further up his nose, and shuffles through some papers. When he looks up, his voice is emotionless with an edge of vindictive.

“Given the circumstances, the evidence points to a fairly clear conclusion." Tsukishima pauses to take in a deep breath. "As per policy for killings done in self-defense and revenge murder, Iwaizumi Hajime shall replace Oikawa as reaper. Any objections?”

Iwaizumi would very much love to object, but all of the air has been stolen from his lungs and Oikawa is silent in front of him, looking desperate and choked himself.  _Replace?_

“Wonderful. Kuroo, please.” Tsukishima says with an air of satisfied finality, like the edge of a blade slamming down.

Suddenly, they’re both standing. The spiky-haired Kuroo man is right in front of them, looking an insulting mix of pitying and resigned, and he’s scanning Oikawa’s face searchingly.

Oikawa doesn’t look at Iwaizumi.

Instead, he takes a step away, takes his hand off Iwaizumi’s arm, and looks at Kuroo head-on.

Kuroo pulls off his gloves, and stretches a hand out towards Oikawa’s face.

The brush of knuckles on Oikawa’s cheekbone is gentle, tender even, and then his knees are giving out and his body is sagging in a graceful arc towards the hard cold floor and eyelashes are fluttering shut over his caramel eyes.

“ _No,”_ Iwaizumi breathes in mute terror.

“Welcome to your new job,” Kuroo says, pulling his gloves back on.

Iwaizumi swings for his face.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading !!!!! ilu aa at this point i rly want a happy ending so im possibly working on a sequel type of thing where 1. iwaoi end up tgt 2. no one is dead or sad or separated so !! if u want there to be a What Happens Next let me know so i can upload it once done sdkajf thank u again ♡


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